When Elvira Met Bettie

Elvira couldn't believe it. Her first orgy! Well, not her first, obviously—those goblins had done a number on her and in that one crypt party, there'd been a mummy buried with so many of his servants and courtesans that there'd been enough bandages for the entire run of ER. And Elvira was sure all of them had come off.

But this was her first real, planned, Babylonian,

Hollywood

orgy. Not some spontaneous thing that happened because she bent over and there were people watching her both fore and aft. No, this was the kind of thing where people wore condoms. It was

classy.

Maybe that was why it was a little ho-hum. Sure, there was the sacrifice to Moloch, which was always fun, and she liked spending time with Gordon Vought, the stud who'd invited her to the sex party.

He liked spending time with her too, of course, her being the first 'discovery' of his that not only was willing to go to an orgy, but asked him what was taking him so long to invite her to one?

Gordon Vought was a big-time director and producer, a middle-aged man who'd worked his way up from authorship in his teens to screenwriting in his twenties, then directing. Now he practically owned the studio he set his pictures at. Yet despite his advancing age, with steely gray hair at his temples, he was attractive enough to be one of the actors.

He had dark, coarse hair, parted on the right side of his head. There was a scar at his hairline a little smaller than a set of tweezers, though it was hard to tell with the way it disappeared under his dark coif. His eyebrows were thick slashes over small eyes—tiny pinprick pupils that seemed to observe what they saw in minute detail instead of simply looking at them. His teeth, when he often smiled, seemed larger than normal. The broadness of his features could've made him look like a ghoul, but he carried himself with such brash confidence that it was hard not to be swept along and find him attractive.

Elvira could've fought it, but she was already attracted to his big dick—why shouldn't she like his face while she was at it?

They whiled away the time with pleasant rapidness. Gordon was with her almost every minute, leaving only briefly to escort prominent guests out. They lunched with a host of naked bodies, but dined alone in a small, intimate nook of Gordon's home.

It wasn't until the streetlamps came on outside—making a brisk appearance through the drawn curtains—that Elvira found herself thinking she'd have Gordon all to herself that night. And he'd have her all to himself too.

She didn't hate the thought, but it seemed like an anticlimax after how many times she'd been airtight that evening.

Maybe Gordon shared her opinion. He walked her up to her room, gave her a breathtaking kiss despite how many compliments she'd gotten on her cocksucker lips (and with good reason), and then left her alone for the night.

Well, she was tired. She went through the motions of getting ready for bed; letting the shower heat up while she washed the cum off at the sink. The running water drowned out any noise, so she didn't hear anyone approaching. Only saw something in the corner of her eye when she finished washing her face and looked in the mirror.

She jerked around and there was Gordon standing in the doorway. He smiled at her. His small eyes danced with delight.

"Just thought I'd enjoy the curtain call," he said.

She slipped off her black dress, leaving on only the lingerie she wore under it. It wasn't really the most comfortable of undergarments; but she was into bondage—it was like being her own dom.

"I never leave an audience disappointed," Elvira replied, though sometimes that was because she never had an audience in the first place.

Warmth slowly enveloped her flesh, softening the kinks she'd managed to accrue with each new sexual position she'd been Tetris'd into. Her movements slowed and she tossed the dress over to Gordon.

"Wash that, would you?" she asked him. "And save the starch for me."

Elvira didn't know if that quite made a double entendre, but she

was

sleeping with the guy. Why should she give him pussy

and

her quality material?

Picking up a wet washcloth, she felt about her face, her throat, and her swollen breasts. Her nipples were hard. She slid the cooling wetness down her belly, over her panties to her groin. It was damp, and not from the bottle of Redd-Wip that had given her more orgasms than her high school sweetheart.

"Better clear out of here," she warned Gordon. "When I'm dirty, the last thing I care about is getting

more

dirty."

"Threatening my virtue?" he chuckled to her. "Wish I could let you have it, but I've been tenderized enough today..."

"That's okay, Gordie, at least you're rich," Elvira cooed to him.

But even after he'd gone, her fingertips sent magic through her body. She languorously felt out her breasts instead of baring them, buttery soft caresses going straight to her stiffening nipples. She felt slinky, sexual, like a cat in heat. Swishing her tail and sniffing for the right back alley. She would've thought it was a love spell, but no one had ever needed

that

to make her feel

this.

It was just sensuality. Her sex was clenching, convulsing. Why wouldn't it? It knew it was in charge.

She looked at the mirror again. No Gordon, just the big blue eyes that were always looking back at her. Elvira smiled vampily at herself, knowing most guys liked her face—but everyone loved the rest of her. Those big blue eyes came off her pretty features and roved down to look at her big, protruding breasts, the hairless slit that shone through her translucent panties, and the plump buttocks that jutted out from her hips when she turned at the waist to showcase both her fore and her dumptruck aft.

She plucked at her nipples; they were big as the tips of her thumbs. Lust darkened her eyes until they were almost as black as her irises. Heated breathing dried her lips and she wet them with her tongue. Seeing that little gesture, even on herself, her nostrils flared. Elvira's hips started to wiggle like she was tapping her toes to a tune, but it was the beat inside her she responded to.

She curved an arm behind her back and loosed the hooks of her bra. The nylon jerked, launched away from her chest by how her breasts sprung free. Elvira could almost hear the cartoony

zip

as her bra was catapulted off. Her chest had the same milky pallor as the rest of her, but her breasts shone the brightest with what little protection her dress provided from tanning.

The big hills swelled out and inward until their curves almost met each other, while their outer slopes were visible from behind, as Elvira confirmed from turning her back on the mirror and looking over her shoulder. Oh yeah: not just sideboob, but back boob.

That

was a well-endowed girl!

In the john at Gordon's production office, she'd overheard a secretary say, 'That new girl is all tits and ass! No wonder he put her under contract—I heard she threatened to show up outside his next premiere if he didn't cast her. Said no one would watch his new movie when they could watch her instead!'

She choked out a moan. Elvira had no idea why that made her hot, aside from her being vain and petty and smug—but only a little. She shoved her panties down, kicked them off, and hurried into the shower. Thankfully, unlike at the Manor Macabre, Gordon had water heaters that worked. Elvira stood under the steaming spray, pushing and pulling at her breasts in a rough massage to work the dried cum out of their rotund heft. But as her shame came off her, the needling jets of water teased her flesh into swollen sensitivity.

Elvira thought again of those secretaries gossiping over how slutty she was, how she showed off all but everything of her assets, and soon she was grinding her hips, forcing her crotch out against her pressuring fingers to further squeeze her turgid lips. Her breasts wobbled and rolled under the heavy stream from the showerhead. Gordon might've been missing out on the fun, but Elvira got to be an absolutely selfish lover.

Well, a more selfish lover.

***

The Plague Doctor stood outside the house, but not for long. He found an unlocked door—although he was guided to it so unerringly he might've been a bloodhound on a scent—and just like that, he was inside. His dark robes blended into the shadows of the darkened house. Set in them, his beaked mask seemed to shine bright white out of contrast. All but the black lenses that allowed the killer's eyes to see yet not be seen.

He was a tall, rangy figure, but not light. There were nearly three hundred pounds in his six foot seven frame. The robes that draped over him concealed what bulk he had, making him look eerily insubstantial with the way he faded into his environment.

He moved in keeping with the obscurity of his visage. The house was old, with creaky floorboards up and down its halls, but the Plague Doctor never seemed to step on one. He could've had no feet at all, the way the hem of his robe drifted along. Only the fact that the Plague Doctor moved forward told that he was in motion. It was more like he was floating above a moving world than making any movement in his own body.

If you strained your ears, you might have been able to detect a slight rasp of breath, but it was easily eclipsed by the sound of running water and Elvira's out-of-tune singing. Even the gurgle of the pipes was louder than the Plague Doctor's whispering breaths.

He moved through the house at his own pace, on his own inscrutable course. When he ended up in the kitchen, at the block of knives, selecting a butcher's blade to complete his gloved right hand—it was impossible to say whether he had searched for the weapon or known it was there the whole time.

But it was clear what he did next. Turning to the source of the off-key singing, he swayed forward step by careful step, eliciting no sound except perhaps for the rush of air cut by the sharpness of the knife he carried.

He went up the stairs, one at a time, no rushing, not even seeming to have a goal in mind. There was an emotionlessness to his movement, but there was also a purposelessness. He moved the same way water would flow downhill—not because it wanted to, but because that was the way water went.

And yet he never faltered, never deviated, never delayed. He crested the top of the staircase like there was no other place he could've gone and turned the corner around the bannister, his free hand on the railing, following it along the balconied hallway that looked down on the first floor.

It led him closer to Elvira's tuneless singing, into the cloud of moist steam rolling out of the cracked bathroom door, and finally to the sliver of light coming from the bathroom. Through it could be seen the mirror, broadcasting the pebbled glass of the shower door with Elvira's creamy, unbroken whiteness. Fractured into censorship by her privacy.

A gust of wind could've eased the door fully open, but nonetheless there the Plague Doctor was, a metastasized tumor growing in deep darkness from the white doorframe, a void made flesh, a

depth

of blackness that reduced the shadows around him to a banal gray. All but the spectral mask, giving this absence a face, implying an intelligence behind the cold dead eyes those lenses made.

Stepping into the bathroom, the dewy tile didn't squeak under heel—not giving away his presence any more than the floorboards had. It was impossible to tell, through his opaque lenses, whether he was truly looking at the shower booth with its alluring contents of rushing waters and nubile womanhood. But here, at the apex of his intrusion, the Plague Doctor hastened slightly. The glass barring his way did hold his target. And he whipped the door open like he'd been waiting a thousand years for this victorious moment.

Wet and soapy, Elvira shrieked at the sudden appearance of the tall masked man with his viciously shining knife. "Ohmigawd ohmigawd ohmigawd!

Plague Doctor!

I'm such a fan! I know, I know, true crime people are so cringe, but the way you took that jockey and pulled his intestines out to use as a picket line for his own horses!" Elvira fanned herself. "Can I get your autograph?"